


He Was My King (He Was My Friend)

by HallsofStone2941



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Reminiscing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 01:26:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2904224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HallsofStone2941/pseuds/HallsofStone2941
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They remember him as king, as mad, as all but worthless in life and heroic in death. They remember son of Thrain, leader of the Quest for Erebor and almost-King Under the Mountain.</p><p>Dwalin wishes they would remember him as he truly was - his friend, Thorin Oakenshield.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Was My King (He Was My Friend)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Avelera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avelera/gifts), [Saetha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saetha/gifts).



> Fic based on [this post](http://avelera.tumblr.com/post/106271524889/he-was-mad-they-say-through-his-death-he-was)

“ _He died a legend_ ,” he hears as he passes through the markets of Thorin’s Halls. “ _A great dwarf, to reclaim a mountain with so few companions_ ”, “ _a_ _shining example, giving his life for his people_ ”, he catches while making his way through the guilds. “ _Better dead than king_ ”, the crueler ones whisper when they think no one can hear. “ _He may have redeemed himself, but it’s best that a dragon-sick Dwarf does not sit on the throne of Erebor_ ”, and “ _a_ _better leader-in-exile than a king, you mark my words_ ”.

Dwalin wishes he could throw every snake-tongued bastard that spits these poisonous words in a cell, as they deserve; alas, the jails would not hold them all, and there is no crime for insulting (besmirching, dishonoring, _shaming_ ) the name of a Dwarf who was never crowned king.

(Dwalin thinks that there should be).

He takes a moment to rest against one of the trees on a hill outside of the settlement. A good friend had once told him that fresh air is soothing for the soul; and so, despite his love of the underground and his stiff and creaking joints, Dwalin tries to follow the advice of his favorite Hobbit.

He sighs. Bilbo would have known what troubles Dwalin; ah, but Bilbo is tucked away in his smial, too far away to recall Thorin Oakenshield with an old friend.

Dwalin has tried, of course, to remind people of Thorin. Not Thorin, son of Thrain, the not-quite King Under the Mountain, but Thorin Oakenshield: cousin, brother, uncle…friend. The Thorin that got throw-up all over his braids and tunic when his nephews were ill; the Thorin that never _quite_ managed to even their sparring score; the Thorin that listened to – and then promptly ignored – Balin’s advice; the Thorin that could not put one foot in front of the other without getting lost.

But Dwalin is one Dwarf amongst hundreds; a very powerful Dwarf, mind you, but only one all the same. The remaining members of the Company are split between Erebor and Moria, and Dis, Mahal rest her soul, had passed not a decade after the death of her brother and sons. This leaves Dwalin alone in Ered Luin – alone, and very, very tired. He does not want people to remember Thorin as the leader of the Quest for Erebor, or as the Dwarf who died before he could become king; and certainly not as the one that succumbed to the illness of his line.

Dwalin sighs again and leans back against the sturdy oak, staring up, half fondly, half bitterly, at the dark green leaves that flutter in the breeze and reflect the golden light of the sun.

He is not so old as to miss the sound of footprints running up the hill. His right hand lands on the dagger in his belt as he lowers his head to see the newcomer. The face of a child appears, and Dwalin relaxes his hand. The child is a little girl, if he is not mistaken; she wears a serious expression and carries a small bundle of flowers (daisies, if Dwalin remembers Bilbo’s chattering correctly).

“Mr. Dwalin?” she asks shyly, coming to a stop in front of him.

“Yes?” he asks, ignoring the misuse of the title – he is Lord Dwalin, and has been for many decades.

The girl shoves the flowers at him with both hands, and he takes them gently, sitting up properly so that he can look at her. “Mama says you knew King Thorin,” she blurts out, watching him.

“I did,” Dwalin rumbles, subconsciously tensing in preparation for what will come next.

“She says that he was a great Dwarf. That he brought back Erebor and killed a bunch of Orcs in the Battle of Five Armies,” she says importantly, rocking back and forth on her heels as if reciting a text. Then her voice lowers, almost conspiratorially. “She says he was mad for a bit, but it’s okay because he died a hero.”

Dwalin, with a patience he never thought he would possess (and one that likely came with age), contains his grimace. He closes his eyes and leans his head against the tree, hoping that the girl will go back to her gossiping (ignorant) mother.

“She says you traveled with him. That you knew him before the Quest.”

Dwalin opens his eyes and looks at her: arms clasped behind her back, torso twisting from side to side in nervous anticipation, tiny sideburns braided, eyes wide and curious and obviously expecting him to comment. He lets out his breath.

“Aye, I did.”

“What was he like?”

The question catches him off-guard. What was Thorin like? No one – not ever, not even before the Quest – had ever asked him that question.

He regards the child again: young and impressionable. Innocent. Ignorant, yes, but this could be a good thing.

Perhaps it is time he stop trying to convince the older Dwarves; a generation set in their ways, as stubborn as the stone around them and all but incapable of being swayed from their opinions. They will die, after all, sooner than not, and it is their children that will bear the weight of their tales; who will pass it down from parent to child to grandchild – and maybe, if Dwalin tells his story enough, _his_ memories of Thorin will be passed down, and _his_ Thorin’s life will be immortalized. Not tales of the final week before Thorin’s death, nor of his ultimate failure and his crowning “glory”, but of the Dwarf he truly had been – leading the final charge against the Orcs at Azanulbizar, bringing his people to Ered Luin and giving them, not just new lives, but new hope; of Thorin Oakenshield, the true King of Durin’s folk.

He shifts his legs and invites the child to sit. She settles easily and comfortably, and Dwalin looks out on the Dwarvish structures that rise from the earth below, collecting his thoughts and his memories. Then he speaks, his low voice rumbling into a cadence that will become as famous as his storytelling.

“The first thing you should know about Thorin is that he had, without contest, the _worst_ sense of direction imaginable…”


End file.
